The red light illuminates—ten minutes.
The drone of the engines changes pitch as we begin to slow down, the deck angle of the cargo compartment rising just a touch. The crew chief dons his portable oxygen and begins running through his checklist procedure. Reaching down, I turn on my portable player, which launches into Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town.” This is a little habit of mine I picked up some time ago to infuse a little confidence. And, if truth be told, a little badassness.
My ears pop as the pressure inside the aircraft lowers. Once it’s stabilized at our current cruising altitude, the crew chief initiates the ramp. The top half of the ramp folds upward as the lower ramp opens to the tune of high-pitched hydraulics. The song finishes playing, with Baker giving a thumbs up. I turn off the player and stow it. Shortly afterward, the crew chief holds up two fingers. I disconnect the oxygen from the aircraft supply and attach it to my personal one. Rising, I step to the edge of the ramp with the others.
The roar of the engines and rush of the slipstream encompasses nearly everything as I stare out of the aircraft through the opened ramp. The upper half of the sun is on the horizon, the western heavens bathed in deep oranges and reds. Scattered clouds below slowly move into view from the edge of the ramp, their borders lined with crimson flames. Further below, the rough terrain of steep ridges, ravines, and valleys is hidden in shadow, only the rocky peaks flushed in the dying light of the day.
Shortly after our arrival back in the USS Dallas, word was received that the other team had missed three of their position reports. The surrounding terrain could account for weak signals, but to miss three was an alert. As time went on, still nothing was heard.
After a short rest, we were pulled off the sub and flown to rearm and be briefed on the details of Bravo target. No one knows what could have occurred. If they had been taken captive or eliminated, there would have been a parade of videos and announcements to elevate the cartel’s status.
The primary mission of finding the hostages is still on the table and our number one priority, but we’re also tasked with conducting a search to find out what happened to the other team. The target is a small village hidden deep in a valley amid mountainous terrain. We look after our own, and resources will be turned to finding their location or learning what happened to them, but our main job is to see to those who were taken and likely being used as a bargaining chip.
We’re going to be inserted in a different location from the other team. They infiltrated with the assistance of others and a possible leak is suspected, but the lack of anyone taking credit is a little disconcerting. They didn’t get lost or take a side trip to explore the local fauna. They were far too experienced for that.
Rechecking my gear and Baker’s, we prepare ourselves in the chilled interior of the C-130 that had been quickly flown down from southern California into our remote desert rendezvous. The crew chief holds up one finger. The six of us are gathered near the ramp, mentally going through checklists for the hundredth time.
The other team was inserted to the southwest of the small town, so we’re attempting another angle and dropping in from the north. There’s a significant chance that the cartel members in the area are alert, thus the reason for a High Altitude Low Opening jump.
There’s always that nervous feeling just prior to a jump. There’re so many variables aside from the worry that we could be met on the ground when we’re the most vulnerable. However, those thoughts are pushed into the background as we all stare at the light like impatient motorists waiting at a stoplight.
At thirty seconds, I shuffle to the edge of the ramp, the cold of the high altitude penetrating through my layers. The red light flickers off and the green illuminates. It’s go time. I leap out into the dusk. The first bite is bitter cold, and the roar of the engines quickly fades away as the 130 and I separate at over two miles a minute. The fluttering roar of the wind takes its place and buffets my gear. Plunging through the dusk, I check my GPS and turn slightly to angle toward our drop zone.
The wind whips a little stronger as I reach terminal velocity, a speed close to what the 130 was flying when we departed its confines. The fiery glow of the setting sun is in my peripheral, a red glow across my vision that lights the edges of the clouds I’m quickly approaching. The orange glow transforms instantly into a blanket of gray that blocks everything. Small water droplets stream from my mask. Before I really register being in the gray void, I plunge through the floor of the cloud with a small wisp of vapor extending downward, following my body.
I check my altimeter and drop zone and note that I’m a little off target, but not so much that I won’t be able to correct the minor deviation. As I descend, the light from the setting sun departs, the light becoming gloomy and then dark like a time-elapsed passing of day into night. The air warms as I descend to the lower elevations. To the south are the glimmering lights of our target town, a couple of them moving; either lights from vehicles or brilliant flashlights. I’ll worry about that later; I’m quickly coming up on deployment.
At one thousand feet, I drop my goggles into place. There’s not a lot of detail to the darkened terrain below, but I’m able to pick out enough at this altitude to visually guide in on the semi-open area we chose as a drop zone. However, as I rocket toward the ground at a crisp one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, the details quickly become clearer. I only have time to make a slight adjustment before it’s time to deploy.
Spreading as much as possible to slow my descent, I deploy the chute. Behind, I hear the fluttering of material as it is thrown into my slipstream. The G-force is abrupt as I’m jerked into an upright position. At this height, I only have a few seconds until I become a creature of the ground once again. Checking that the chute is fully deployed, and assured that I’ll hit the small field, I release my gear bag attached to a tether. The roar of wind past my head becomes a hushed quiet, the only sound the faint ruffle from the chute over my head.
The bushes become starkly clear as I maneuver and drop toward them. The patches of visible ground indicate that the shrubs are only a few feet tall and not over my head, which will cause me to flare high and find an unexpected drop. I’ve done that before—it’s not the most pleasant experience.
“I should be touching down. I’m not feeling the ground. Why aren’t I touching the ground? Oh shit, where is it? OH! There it is…aaand, that’s going to leave a mark.”
I feel the drag of the gear bag’s tether as it hits. Shortly after, I pull on the risers to flare and set foot on the ground with the whisper of branches scraping across my clothing. As I come to a stop, I release the harness and hear the chute flutter to earth. Nearby, I hear the sound of the others arriving. Releasing my weapon and gear bag, I drop and scan the surrounding terrain over the top of a bush. The others form a perimeter and we wait to see if we’ve drawn any company. Without a strong wind, our chutes won’t flutter or fly away.
Under a nighttime sky with distant stars twinkling through gaps in the clouds, we wait in place for fifteen minutes. There’s no noise but the breath of wind gently stirring the tops of the bushes. The chutes and tethers are collected to be buried as best we can in the clay soil. There doesn’t seem to be any foot traffic through this field, but that kind of thinking is exactly what leads to a parade tromping through the bushes. Gathering our gear and shouldering our packs, we set off toward the hills rising above the valley to establish a vantage point above the village a couple of miles away.
As we work our way through the bushes, whispering across the landscape, the terrain begins to rise. The bushes become denser before turning into a chaotic mass of trees. Aboveground roots flow away from the bases of the trees, arcing before vanishing into the red clay soil. We move slowly. We have all night to get into position on the overlooking ridge east of the village.
Several times along the way, the trees abruptly give way to open areas filled with bushes, and we have to alter our course to work around them. Counterintuitively, the openings are treated as obstacles. Luckily, none of the fields appear to be recently tilled or logged, which would give evidence that some villagers live in the hills. We had the opportunity to review satellite footage, but it was hastily gathered. Because the other team had planned an alternate approach, there wasn’t a lot of intel on this stretch of ground.
Through the night, we march ever upward and toward our point, frequently checking the GPS to keep us heading in the right direction. Our position reports go through without interference, which pretty much dismisses the hope that the other team had merely run into an area that blocked communication. That means they’ve run afoul of something, and the lack of credit could mean that they’ve been quietly taken for interrogation. If that’s the case, it hopefully places both of our mission objectives in the same place. If they’ve been moved to a different location, then they’ll be much more difficult to find.
Nearing the town and to the east of it, we come across a well-used dirt road that leads out of the village and winds up the slopes to an unknown destination. The dense foliage from the trees along the edge folds over the top of the route, thus concealing it from any overhead view. I mark the location on my map and make a mental note of the possibility of finding company near our overwatch position.
Backing away, we work our way to a corner where Baker and Mitchell set up alongside the rutted road, each watching opposite directions. Corners are the best locations to cross roads in hostile areas because the line of sight is diminished. The ideal spot is where a road curves along higher terrain, as opposed to away from it. Once they’re in position and the road is clear, Taylor and I move across, keeping to the hard pack to not leave impressions, and enter the tree line on the opposite side. From there, we push onward and set up along our line of travel. Freeman and Burkhart follow, setting up on the far side, similar to Baker and Mitchell, who then cross and push past the two. In this manner, we fall into our original marching order.
After a few hours, we arrive at a position that gives us a fairly decent view over the village while remaining out of sight. A narrow clearing of bushes leads to a sharp drop off, the bare clay showing as the result of a slide. Trees encroach on the opening, giving us shelter, and they’re tall enough that we won’t be silhouetted by the sky. In the dark valley below, a couple of lights flicker from windows. Every so often, the beam of a flashlight can be seen as someone moves down one of the very few streets.
We pull back into the trees and set up. We won’t be conducting any observations this evening—we need rest. The past few days have been exhausting. As I lay back, with Baker taking first watch, I’m a little concerned about the concealed dirt road below our position and what it might mean for our continued security.
* * * * * *
With the sun yet to make its appearance in the false dawn, I crawl across the chilled ground, working my way through the thick, tangled stalks of the bushes. I think my fantasy is of retiring in a hammock because it’s a place that’s not on the fucking ground. And my joy of camping, yeah, that’s pretty much a thing of the past as well. To purposely leave the comfort of a soft mattress to go sleep on the cold ground—ludicrous. I love the outdoors and know this feeling is only transitory, but at the moment, I’m good with never having to spend another moment outside.
With Taylor alongside, I crawl to the edge of the clearing and look out over the village. More lights appear as the sky begins to lighten, the village stirring awake. That’s another thing. If I do get to retire, this morning thing just isn’t going to happen. Behind, the sun rises, beams streaking through gaps in the trees.
Slowly, the town falls into the light of the fiery life-giving ball. The village in the long, narrow valley is centered along a dirt road that enters from the north and departs to the south. Ramshackle houses with red tiled roofs are placed close together, some looking like a strong wind will blow them out of existence. A couple of roads lead away from the main street, heading toward the clumps of other houses. One road vanishes into the trees and is most likely the one below us.
Some of the buildings are painted in bright colors, sometimes just a single wall. At one crossroads, one building painted white with red trim stands out. Next to it is a gazebo with a small cleared area and white iron benches around it. My guess is that the structure is either some kind of provincial government building or a church.
Another road leads to a large building with a tin roof on the far edge of the village. An additional road parallels the main one and ends at a hacienda on the near edge of town. If there are hostages being held, they are most likely either in the shed building or the larger two-story house surrounded by three-foot adobe walls.
The village stirs into motion, seeming to transition all at once. People leave their doorways of warped wood, or in some cases only curtains, and begin walking the dirt roads. A group heads down the road toward the shed while others go about an assortment of tasks. There aren’t any roadside tourist attractions or any sort of shops supporting that trade. These people are making a meager living barely feeding themselves, perhaps making the long drive to a larger town as it warrants.
Armed guards walk the streets or lounge against corner walls, smoking cigarettes and exchanging lies with their comrades. A line of beat-up pickups chugs along the street with people sitting in the beds. They make their way to the edge of town and vanish into the trees, but the sounds of their engines increase as they begin to climb the road below. Glimpsing only flashes of color through the foliage, I listen as they pass and continue to a position several hundred yards away on the same level as us.
At the hacienda, a pair of guards walks the grounds in random fashion. As I watch, I get the impression that the randomness is more out of boredom than by design. Several more are gathered at the gated entrance to the small compound, with others gathered on an entrance porch.
The two-story structure is built much like the one we encountered on the coast—adobe walled with red tiles on the roof. It’s shaped like a backward “E”—yes, I know that’s a 3, but with straight lines rather than curved. Courtyards are formed in the rear between the wings off the main length and are backed by a taller fence. The building and surrounding compound are set apart from the rest of the village by trees crowding the rear fence and sides. Unlike the last manse we visited, this one hasn’t been designed with security in mind. For that reason, doubt creeps into my thoughts—surely they wouldn’t house hostages here. However, the village is small and remote, so it may be off anyone’s radar and security not that much of an issue.
Although the compound may be easy to enter, the number of guards in and around it could make it a little sporty. Couple that with the others in town, and this carnival could become less than fun in a hurry.
The posture of the guards is a little confusing. They are relaxed and not really checking corners, or much of anything. If the other team had been discovered, whether killed or taken for questioning, then the ones below should be exhibiting a greater level of alertness. Having things not make sense doesn’t sit well with me. Although the number of guards indicates that something is going on to warrant so much security, their behavior isn’t matching my assumed circumstances. Which means that my assumptions have to be incorrect.
That means that the other team must have gotten lost, fell into a deep hole…all of them at once, or someone else got to them. If they found themselves in a comm blackout area, they would have worked their way around it, knowing what would occur should they go silent. The idea of someone else out in the wilds that could take down a trained team without alerting others nearby isn’t an overly warming thought. With the number of creatures in this jungle, I don’t want to set trip-wired claymores and give ourselves away should some ocelot become curious about us. We’ll have to set something that doesn’t go bang.
Nothing much changes below during the day other than a random rotation of guards. A few times, a truck makes its way up the dirt road under our position only to return an hour or so later. I don’t see any sign of the hostages in the courtyards or through any of the windows. This could just be a drug town owned by the cartel, the hostages being held elsewhere. However, our intel isn’t often wrong.
Even though the guards walking and lounging seem random, a pattern begins to emerge in that they congregate in certain areas. Every so often, a pair walks the streets, but without any heightened sense of checking on things. At times, a few appear in the courtyards and sit in lounge chairs with smoke drifting above their heads. We won’t be able to conduct our business as efficiently as at the lighthouse, but we should be able to get into the rear courtyards fairly easily.
If the hostages are indeed here, we won’t be able to eliminate the guards and have the cavalry show up to hoist them away. We’ll have to sneak them out and arrange for a pickup somewhere else. That means making their disappearance unknown for a period of time. Dragging seven hostages along while we try to sneak back through the defenses doesn’t sound like a roaring good time.
“I’ll bet they’re all wearing white as well,” I mutter, continuing to monitor the village.
“What’s that, Jack?” Taylor replies.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking we’ll have to sneak them out at night and I’ll bet they’re all wearing white,” I respond.
“And the women will be wearing high heels…probably the guys as well,” Taylor says with a chuckle.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Fuck Calhoun for getting his team lost,” I state.
“He probably thought his watch was a compass,” Taylor rejoins.
“And his stained clothes an actual terrain map.”
I’m not actually upset, and I hope to hell we find the team alive; it’s just the way we sometimes cope with stress and loss. We haven’t “learned” to deal with it or become emotionless automatons, we’re just able to stuff it way down deep. Thus, the escapades after the missions and waking up wondering if the pants we’re wearing are actually ours. Or, wondering why our eyebrows are gone and having to quickly check the morning paper to see if we’ve made the most wanted list. And then there are the times alone, away from all others, when the tears just won’t stop and our very souls cry out.
As the sun drives across an azure sky with a few lazily drifting cotton balls, and as the land becomes hot and humid, a plan begins to form. Without being able to take care of the guards, we’ll have to work our way through them. We’ll have to watch during the night before it can be firmed up, but that’s when there’s likely to be fewer guards. Fewer guards along with less visibility and shadows encompassing most of the land, but more guards when it’s broad daylight…okay, go figure that one out.
At any rate, it looks like the back courtyards offer the best chance of entering the premises. Two will hold one of them while four of us enter and begin a search. We’ll avoid those inside, but if we have to take care of anyone, then we’ll hide the bodies as best as we can and move on. Four is a crowd inside one of these residences, so we’ll work in two teams of two, one left and the other right. If one team locates the hostages, then the other team will turn and head to provide cover for their route of extraction, and everyone will collapse back to the point of entry.
That’s about the extent of my planning. I like plans, but I like to have wiggle room as well. All plans go wrong—all of them—all of the time. My thinking is that if a plan is too rigid, then it will break when it goes wrong. If you have wiggle room, then you can bend, bob, and weave your way through it.
Now, you have to have a plan of some sorts. Turning around and expecting to see your buddy, only to find a long empty hallway, is a little disconcerting. Anarchy doesn’t work either. Play a multiplayer video game with random people who are unable to communicate and you’ll see what I mean. Anarchy leads to a lot of WTF moments.
Baker and Mitchell arrive, their darkened faces appearing from under the bushes. After briefing them on what we’ve observed, Taylor and I crawl off and work our way back to the camp set within a thick copse of trees. Pulling an MRE out of my pack, I devour the cuisine, forgoing the stiff cardboard cleverly disguised as a cracker. Nothing will drain the moisture from your body as well as those.
* * * * * *
As the sun vanishes behind the tall peaks on the other side of the valley, I hear the sound of the trucks departing whatever installation is near us, grinding their way down the dirt road back into town. The villagers march down the street from the shed, each parting the curtains to their abodes or opening warped doors to the sound of creaking hinges. Farmers walk up the streets from outlying fields, their slow steps indicative of their tiredness. Several people gather at the benches along the main street and eat together. In other places, small groups gather around fires sputtering from metal cans. Smoke drifts from pipes leaning at all angles above roofs. As darkness settles, lights flicker on from behind curtains or through open windows.
My observations affirm my feeling that this is a cartel drug manufacturing village. There are just too many guards for it to be otherwise. The comfort level they’re portraying suggests that they’ve existed here for a long time instead of being carted in to keep the hostages secure. We’ll check the place out, but I feel that we’ve stumbled into a situation similar to the one we had at the first target.
The night holds little other than a few guards walking the streets and around the grounds of the hacienda. Several times, I witness armed men in the courtyards, orange lights flaring occasionally. The courtyards could become a problem, but their visits taper off around midnight. The sentries posted at the front gates lean against the adobe walls, their vigilance nonexistent. One even sits down and leans his head onto his knees.
Shit, we may be able to just walk through the front fucking door.
During the day, we keep one teammate posted to watch over the town at all times, but this day is mostly to relax and get whatever rest we can. Once the trucks make their way down the dirt track and night falls, we’ll begin moving down the slopes and enter the town. We don’t have forever to plot precise schedules, and I’m not really sure we could at any rate. In the back of my mind, I still wonder what in the hell happened to the other team.
* * * * * *
Darkness has closed around us like a thick blanket, the trunks and dense foliage bathed in a green glow as we make our way off the ridge. The overhead cover blocks any light of the heavens from reaching through. With everything packed so tightly together, it feels confining to the point that even sound is muffled and suppressed. Working our bodies sideways, we slip through the trees and undergrowth, crossing the road and descending toward the villa.
With the small compound at the end of the road, we don’t have to worry about crossing open ground before arriving. There’s only a concern that some drunken bastard scattered traps or mines in the jungle surrounding the place. That may be more of a concern around their processing plants, but you never know. For that reason, we stay away from anything resembling a path, slowly parting branches out of our way and slithering past, as we move through the darkness without a sound.
The adobe fence at the back wall is six feet tall and without any wire or embedded glass shards on top. This place is probably relying on security by reputation alone. After running my finger along the top to check for a filament strand, I slip the fiber cord to the camera and look at the miniature screen, shielding any of the light from extending beyond my face. The courtyard on the other side is momentarily empty, with lounge chairs arranged in a line across a concrete patio. A BBQ grill sits to one side and a picnic-style table on the other. Lights glow behind curtains from some of the facing windows on both stories, while others remain dark. A single light perched above double wooden doors set in the middle casts a yellowish glow across the courtyard. There are other single doors leading inside near the end of each wing surrounding the enclosure.
I didn’t see any sudden flare of other lights when the guards emerged during our observations the night before, but I check for any indication of motion-activated lights nonetheless. Satisfied that we’ll have a relatively easy entry, I withdraw the cable and we wait until a majority of the lights are turned off. I don’t want to wait all night, but I also don’t want to walk into the middle of a rave.
After some time, I scale the wall with assistance and drop into the yard. Snaking along the wall, I head to the gloom of the corner near the outer wing where I’m shortly joined by Taylor. Freeman heads to the opposite side and sneaks along the wall of the inner wing, peeking into each window while the two of us cover the exit doors.
In the second courtyard, the other three are performing the same operation. The plan is to enter the outside wings and meet in the middle. If we don’t find any sign of the hostages, then we’ll proceed to the second floor. As Freeman works his way along, he signals the room clear or how many occupants are within, or that he’s not able to see inside. We meet at the door leading into the outer wing and Freeman retraces his steps into the inner corner where he’ll keep the courtyard clear while we’re inside.
“Ready, zero canaries observed,” I whisper on the radio.
Baker double-clicks on the radio, acknowledging the call and to indicate that he’s ready as well.
I peek inside to see an empty narrow corridor leading to a larger middle hall. There were a couple of people in several rooms; Freeman indicated they were kicked back in chairs watching TV. They aren’t alerted, but that doesn’t mean hunger or a trip to the bathroom won’t call them at any time. I hate doing this interior bullshit, but there’s no alternative. The hallways are lit and brighter than at the first coastal residence.
“Entering.”
I hate having to split us up, but doing so will enable us to conduct a faster search. I want to spend as little time inside as possible. With a nod, Taylor grabs the handle and twists, pushing the door open. I slide inside and head to the hallway intersection, crouching against the wall.
Taylor quietly closes the door and joins me. We have to move fast when the opportunity presents itself because corridors only remain empty for so long. But, we have to also maintain silence. Luckily, the floors are tiled, which will prevent the creaks and groans that wooden floors are prone to.
Subdued voices and laughter echo faintly down the hall, sounding a lot like dialogue and laugh tracks from a television. Keeping out of sight of the main hallway, I slowly slide the fiber cable around the corner toward the front. It’s clear. I pull on one small lever, angling it the other direction. At the end of the hall, two men are sitting in chairs, their elbows on their knees and heads lowered. Two AK-47s are propped on the tile between their legs, hands wrapped around them only enough to hold them upright. One of the men turns his head to the side, murmuring to his buddy, who then replies. Behind them, stairs the width of the hall lead down.
Okay, then, I think, sliding the cable out of sight.
I signal Taylor and then radio Baker.
“Stairs heading down, outside end of the hall. Two guards.”
“Same here, no guards,” Baker responds.
“Hold position and be ready to either extract or join up,” I reply.
“Copy…holding.”
“Better yet, make your way here to hold the route clear. If we don’t get a bite, we’ll proceed with the original plan,” I whisper.
“Copy, moving now.”
Taylor and I wait until I hear Baker and his team radio that they’re in the courtyard and moving to our position. The next step will place us into a committed relationship with the guards in the building, and with locating the hostages. This is the point of no return. Turning toward the courtyard, I see Baker and Mitchell slip into the small corridor. They nod and ease up behind.
Turning to Freeman, I motion that he has the left and I the right. I slip around the corner to the far wall and step forward, bringing my carbine up. A whisper of cloth lets me know that Freeman has followed. From twenty feet away, two surprised faces look up, their startled expressions interrupted by two rounds slamming into each of their heads in quick succession. Sprays of blood splash against the clay walls and into the fabric of the chairs.
Shouldering past Freeman and me, Baker and Mitchell quietly race forward. They are able to catch the weapons before they clatter to the ground and to prevent the slumping men from collapsing to the floor or falling backward. The corpses are hurriedly arranged in their chairs. However, the suppressed subsonic rounds, although quiet, aren’t absolutely silent within the confines of the hall. A thin line of smoke wisps out of my barrel with the faint odor of gunpowder filling my nostrils.
As I near the chairs, a voice calls from the stairs below, reverberating off hard concrete walls. I look at Baker, wondering if he understood what was being said. He shrugs and whispers, “Maybe they’re ordering Thai food?”
“American will have to do. See that it’s delivered in style,” I comment.
Baker and Mitchell start down the stairs, turning at an intermediate landing and vanishing from view. Several strobes of light flash from below, momentarily overshadowing the lights of the stairwell. At the same time, there’s the rattle of a door handle being turned in the room just to my side. I step out of sight with Freeman.
A beam of light flares into the hall from an opening door. A mustached head peeks out and looks directly at us, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hole of a barrel just inches away.
“Should have stayed in your room, dude,” I mutter, pulling the trigger.
The round pierces his eye, liquid thickly forming a small stream underneath it. The mostly unimpeded bullet tears through the orbital socket and rips through the soft tissue of the brain, slamming against the back of the skull. The back of his head explodes outward, a thick splatter of brain tissue hitting the door with a wet slap. Some of the larger pieces peel off and fall to the floor, striking the floor with the same sound. Tendrils of blood begin streaming down from meaty chunks glued to the door.
The man leaning out of the door, his hands on the frame, begins falling into the corridor as if he suddenly didn’t have legs. Reaching out, I grab hold of his sweaty, stained T-shirt. The back of his head is a gooey mess—a piece of his skull flopping to one side, dark blood welling in the cavity and his hair matted with blood.
Use it or lose it, I think, staring at the mess of brains and easing the man to the floor.
Taylor rapidly swings around us, taking care not to slip on the gore covering the tiled floor, and pushes the door wider without having it crash into the wall or slam into something. Holding the dead man’s shirt, I look inside and see another man standing beside a bed with ruffled blankets. He’s clad in a stained sleeveless T-shirt and boxers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Muted coughs echo in the room. His shirt puffs outward from the impacts, with two red spots blossoming. A third round punches into his forehead, the force of the bullets driving him backward where he falls across a mattress.
I pull the man in my grasp into a room suddenly filled with the smell of gunpowder and released bowels. Hurrying back into the hall, I bring the stock of my carbine up to an overhead light and tap the bulb. The filament breaks and plunges the back section of the hall into a deep gloom. Within the darkness, the two men resting in the chairs will be silhouetted against a backdrop of light from the stairwell. To a casual observer, it will appear that the two are still seated in their guard positions.
“Six canaries in the basement,” Baker radios.
“On my way,” I reply.
Sending Taylor back to the hallway intersection to wait by the side hall, I start down the steps. At ground level, the adobe walls transition to concrete and the lights become bare bulbs hanging by strands of wire. Stepping over two bodies, I enter a larger room with a steel table in the center and surrounded by chairs. Around the edges of the concrete room, some of the walls are cracked and darkened by water and hold anchored chains and manacles.
Baker and Mitchell are working locks open from six people, two sitting along each of the back and side walls. The hostages all have grime smeared across their faces and stained clothing, their hair messy and dirty. The freed ones continue sitting, massaging their ankles where the manacles have rubbed the skin raw. I expected some excited chatter, but Baker has obviously impressed upon them the need to be quiet. Without a word, I withdraw the photographs we were provided, matching the pictures with the dirt-stained faces looking up at me. They all match until I’m left holding a single picture without an accompanying body. We are after seven, but there are only six in the room. I’m instantly worried that the missing hostage is being held in another room or was taken away to be shortly returned. Frankly, considering the mess we’ve made here, we don’t have a lot to time to conduct a search without alerting the entire place.
“Heads up, Taylor. We may have company returning.”
At one of the hostages, his eye blackened and swollen, a split lip with an untreated cut near his temple, I kneel and ask, “Where is…” I pause, turning the picture over to read the name, “Adam Riches?”
“When we were brought in, a couple of us struggled and tried to break free. You can see how well that went,” the younger man begins, pointing to his injuries.
I stare hard into his eyes, giving an indication that we’re not around a campfire exchanging long-winded stories. The man shakes his head slightly, orienting his thoughts.
“Anyway, some of us were beaten pretty badly and one was taken away bleeding and unconscious. They came back and we were told he had died and to let that be a lesson. I didn’t personally know the dude, but I think that’s the one you’re asking about,” the man replies.
I turn the picture toward him and he nods.
“Thank you,” I reply, rising and stepping over to Mitchell.
Tapping the medic on the shoulder, I ask, “Can they walk?”
“They’re dehydrated and their ankles and wrists are raw, but they can walk,” Mitchell answers.
“How fast?”
“They can walk,” Mitchel responds.
“That’s not very reassuring. Can they make it to the ridge?”
Mitchell shrugs and goes back to tending to the hostages while Baker frees the last one.
Well, fuck! Let’s hope we’re able to get a good head start.
I step out of the room and radio our command platform offshore.
“Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”
“Go for Raven zero one.”
“Six canaries in hand, injured but mobile. One possible KIA. Do you want a body, over?”
“Do you have the lead canary?”
“Affirmative.”
“How much trouble to recover the body?”
“We’ll wake up the neighbors and they’ll want to have a party, which will hamper us getting the others out,” I reply.
“Proceed as is. Raven zero one, out.”
Stepping back into the room, I gaze at each of the hostages sitting on the damp floor, gauging their ability to move. Eager, hopeful eyes return my look, some with tears formed.
“What do you say we get you out of here?” I state, standing in the middle of the room. “Understand that it’s not going to be easy. It’s a hell of a climb and it’ll be dark. I mean the kind of dark where you can’t see a hand in front of your face. There are obstacles, so when you walk, lift your feet and step forward. If you trip or fall, don’t cry out. We’ll be there to guide you, so don’t freak out if you can’t see anything. It’s imperative that everyone remain absolutely quiet and that you do exactly what we say, when we say it, and without hesitation,” I state. “Is that clear?”
Seeing the hopefulness change to worried expressions, I add. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here. That’s my promise. In two hours, you’ll be on your way home.”
Walking the hostages upstairs and into the courtyard, we assist them over the wall. I assign each of us a hostage to guide through the darkness. Before we move out, I notify Raven zero one that we’ll arrive at Delta for a pickup in two hours.
In the lead, I have the senator’s daughter hold her place as I scout ahead, returning with the all clear to guide her over roots and through branches that I’ve parted. It’s slow, as I have to walk over the same ground twice, but I want to make sure our route is clear before proceeding. Behind, the others in the team are reassuring and guiding their charges.
I have two emotions warring: the desire to move out of the area quickly before the bodies are discovered and the need to scout the route and stay quiet. I resolve the issue by moving faster once we’re away from the compound, but still keeping the volume of noise down. Crossing the dirt road, I hear a commotion rising from the village below.
On the other side, I grab the handset from Freeman.
“Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”
“Badger six, Raven zero one, go.”
“The ant’s nest has been kicked over. Ten minutes out,” I radio.
“Copy, Badger six. Extraction is on standby three minutes away. Call when you’re in position.”
“Copy that, moving now. Badger six, out.”
Moving as quickly as we can through the twisted undergrowth, I feel a little reassured that we were able to put a bit of distance behind us before the absence of the hostages was discovered. That means they won’t know where we are, but the condition of the bodies lying on the tile floors will give an indication that we were there not long ago. They may also know a little of what they’re up against. However, they won’t be sure of the direction we took, and I hope they keep to the roads.
We push to the top of the ridge, the panting breath of the rescued vacationers harsh in the dark. Radioing for the extraction, we herd the civilians into the tree line and take defensive positions. In the dark, there are faint sobs coming from some of the group, with others trying to thank us. It’s not easy to tell people thanking you to shut the hell up.
Code words are exchanged with the pilots, and before long, the beating of helicopter blades grows in volume and intensity. The tops of the trees sway violently as a dark object moves overhead and settles into the narrow clearing. In order to keep the blades out of the trees, the pilot has to land with one skid on the edge of the drop off, the other hovering in open air.
Guiding the hostages, we set them into the opening of the black helicopter. Crew members inside grab each one and settle them into place. One of the young ladies turns and throws her arms around Baker in a monster hug.
“Thank you so much!” she whispers through a sob, pulling away with a smear of camouflage on her cheek.
“It’s my pleasure, ma’am,” Baker returns.
Inside of twenty seconds, the last of them board and the chopper rises a few feet, turns ninety degrees, and moves off, gaining altitude and speed.
Watching the dark shape blend in with the night, the sound of the blades growing fainter, a warm glow descends into my stomach. The hostages, held with fear in a cold basement only a couple of hours ago, are now on their way home. It’s moments like this that keep me coming back.
“Looks like you met a friend,” I comment to Baker.
“Apparently so,” he responds, staring at the helicopter fading into the night. “You know, Jack, it just doesn’t get any better than this…the feeling that we’re truly doing something good. This is what it’s all about. It doesn’t happen often, but it makes all that other shit tolerable.”
“That it does,” I reply.
Below, the village is lit like some festival, the lights of vehicles moving in the streets and flashlights prowling through yards. Faint shouts drift to our position. Many headlights flash through the thick foliage, coming up the road below our position.
“Well, boys, I think it’s time to make ourselves scarce.”
In single file, we vanish into the trees, working ourselves out of the area to see if we can find out what happened to the other team.